


Mr. Green, This is YOUR Life!

by plumeria47



Category: Clue (1985), This Is Your Life (TV)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: The cast ofCluereunite at Mr. Green's appearance on the "This is Your Life" TV show.  He is NOT amused.





	Mr. Green, This is YOUR Life!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wickedtrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedtrue/gifts).



> The American version of _This Is Your Life_ ran from 1954-1961, with a revival in 1987. I'm taking creative license by pretending it ran into the mid-1960s. Many thanks to Merin for the speedy beta. [wickedtrue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedtrue/pseuds/wickedtrue), I'm not sure if this is exactly what you had in mind with the history and pop culture references, mid 1960s setting, etc, but I did my best. Happy Yuletide!

"Welcome to _This is_ YOUR _Life_!" The cameras panned to the man in the dashing tweed suit, walking onto the sound stage, beaming broadly, his trademark giant album tucked under one arm. "And now, here's your host, Mr. Ralph Edwards!"

Mr. Edwards walked in front of the gold curtains, beaming. "Thank you, Johnny," he said, after he'd bowed to the applauding audience. "Tonight, folks, we have a real treat for you. I guarantee you have never seen a show like the one we have planned tonight. In fact, you may not even be familiar with our honored guest." Mr. Edwards turned to look directly into the camera. "You know, normally we have well-known celebrities – movie stars, sports figures, and the like. But this time we have a man who has spent much of his life behind the scenes. That doesn't make him unimportant, though!" Mr. Edwards added, wagging a finger. "Our guest tonight is none other than our marvelous deputy FBI director, Mr.—"

A production assistant suddenly darted onto the stage and whispered into Mr. Edwards' ear.

"Ah, that's right," Mr. Edwards said, once the assistant had dashed off again. He smiled ruefully into the camera. "Given the secretive nature of our guest's line of work, we will be using a pseudonym for him. Tonight, he shall be known simply as 'Mr. Green.' And here he is now!"

A door on the side of the set opened, and out came a neatly-groomed middle-age man, blinking in surprise at the sudden stage lights. 

"Mr. Green! Welcome to _This is Your Life!_ "

Mr. Green turned to the man who had accompanied him through the door. "You said we were going to be meeting with Walter Cronkite!"

His companion grinned. "I lied. How else could I get you here?" And with that, he withdrew and left the stage.

Mr. Green nervously pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Well," he said, with a weak smile. "This is a surprise."

Mr. Edwards chuckled. "It always is. But now that you're here, Mr. Green, we'd like to introduce you to our audience. Not too many people know this, but you've got a pretty important job, am I right?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so," Mr. Green murmured. He fished around in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "FBI," he said, briefly flashing the badge. "I'd say more, but then I'd have to kill you."

"Ha ha!" Mr. Edwards laughed. "What a delightful charmer you are, Mr. Green! And now, if you would be so kind as to have a seat, we'll begin." He opened the giant album as Mr. Green sat gingerly on the nearest upholstered chair. "The stork dropped you off on a rainy Friday, March 28th, 1924, at Mercy Hospital in Scranton, PA."

A black and white photo of a mid-size structure was dutifully displayed on the large screen behind Mr. Edwards.

Mr. Green nodded. "Yes, that's right."

"You were then raised in this charming home on Whitman Road."

The displayed photo changed to one of a quiet city block of row homes.

"And you acquired a particular taste for a certain food quite young, apparently!" Mr. Edwards chuckled. 

"Yes," said Mr. Green, with a self-deprecating smile. "Mother was fond of making soup to stretch our money during the Depression, and she was very good at it."

"Yes, and that brings us to our first visitor from your past. Here's a little clue for you." Mr. Edwards gestured to the door. Mr. Green smiled broadly, leaning forward in anticipation. He hadn't seen his now-elderly mother in quite awhile.

"Oh, my, this soup's delicious!" came a voice. 

"Moth--- Wait, that isn't my mother!" Mr. Green frowned.

Mr. Edwards winked at him. "Good to know the top crackerjack minds are on the job at the FBI," he said. "No, this woman is not your mother, but she did play an important role in your life for one eventful night. I present to you … Mrs. Peacock!"

In walked an older woman, hair mostly gray but still looking spry. She gave a little wave to the audience, the feathers on her hat bobbing as she moved.

Mr. Green's jaw hung open. "Aren't you supposed to be in jail?" he finally managed.

"You lightened my sentence," Mrs. Peacock replied in her gravelly voice.

"I didn't do it!"

"No, no. I mean the FBI. After the trial, someone discovered that cooking with monkeys' brains was illegal in the United States," Mrs. Peacock said with a little shrug, as Mr. Green fought the urge to gag at the memory of that night's meal. "They decided that since Cook would have gone to prison, herself, had she still been alive, then the fact that I killed her, in the kitchen, with the knife—"

" _Shhhhh!_ " Mr. Green looked mortified that Mrs. Peacock would admit such a thing in front of the entire country.

"--wasn't such a crime, after all," continued Mrs. Peacock, as if nothing had happened. "They held a retrial and commuted my sentence."

Mr. Green worked his jaw for a moment. "I see. And how is Senator … Peacock?" he asked, remembering at the last moment not to use her real last name.

Mrs. Peacock sighed as she adjusted her cats-eye glasses. "Not too well, I'm afraid. Without my influence, he had no idea how to vote, really, and soon lost much of his importance. He's still a Senator, at least – but then," she concluded with a sly glance, "you probably already knew that." 

"Well, yes," Mr. Green admitted, pushing his glasses back up his nose again. It was pretty much his job description to know as much as possible. Yet his expression clearly showed he had not known that Mrs. Peacock had been freed.

"Isn't she delightful?" interjected Mr. Edwards. "Please, Mrs. Peacock, do have a seat over there." He gestured to one of the furthest seats, but one that was still far too close for Mr. Green's comfort.

"And now," Mr. Edwards went on, "we move on to a new chapter in your life, Mr. Green." He turned to the screen behind him, now showing a military base. "After graduating from Central High with honors, you joined the thousands of _brave_ young men who signed up to win the second World War for us." He flashed another one of his trademark smiles at Mr. Green. "And we certainly thank you for that! But we also must thank the commanding officers who trained you, don't we?"

Mr. Green smiled modestly. "I wouldn't be where I am today without them, sir."

"Of course not!" boomed Mr. Edwards. "Which brings us to our next guest."

"Surely not Sergeant Duffy?" Mr. Green looked hopeful. Sarge had gotten him through Basic, and although at the time he hadn't been too fond of being shouted at, in hindsight he recognized that Sarge had probably kept him alive during the fighting with the rigorous training.

"Alas, no," replied Mr. Edwards with another eye twinkle. But I think you should be able to guess from this clue. If you were to say 'Let us in, let us in!' then the next words you would hear would be…"

Mr. Green heaved a sigh. "Let us out, let us out!" he replied, rather woodenly.

"Excellent, I didn't think you'd remember!" Onto the stage walked a somewhat portly middle-aged man with a prominent, slightly graying mustache. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Colonel Mustard, yet another one of Mr. Green's former companions."

"We were 'companions' for all of one night before I had him arrested for murder," said Mr. Green said in some exasperation. 

"Hey, it's not like I killed President Kennedy," Colonel Mustard said, hands raised in self-defense. 

"I'm sure that was a great comfort to your driver when you hit him with the wrench," said Mr. Green, rolling his eyes. "And how did _you_ get out of prison already?"

Colonel Mustard shrugged as he sat in a chair next to Mr. Green. "The government needed me to continue work on the fusion bomb and I couldn't do that from jail. They told the judge I should get out early for good behavior."

Mr. Green frowned. "I thought Communism was just a red herring."

"Look, you're the one working for the FBI," Colonel Mustard pointed out. "So are they keeping you properly informed or not, yes or no?"

"No."

It was Colonel Mustard's turn to frown. "No they ARE, or no they AREN'T?"

Mr. Green shook his head. "I'm sorry, I meant no, meaning yes."

"'No, meaning yes'?" The Colonel stood, scowling angrily down at the guest of honor. "Are you trying to make me look stupid in front of the audience?" 

Mr. Green pushed his glasses back up his nose. "You don't need any help from me," he said coolly.

"That's right!" Colonel Mustard stopped abruptly, eyebrows furrowing as he pieced the conversation back together in his head. He sat back down without another word.

The next few minutes of the show passed in a blur to Mr. Green. Professor Plum, who now sported a shock of wild white hair, appeared instead of the favorite History professor he'd been led to believe would be next. Mrs. White – who was _not_ the white-haired woman who had lived in the apartment next to his when he'd first lived on his own - came after Plum, having gotten out of prison when her illusionist husband miraculously reappeared and testified that she had not been responsible for his ineptitude.

"But that's not what you went to prison for!" cried Mr. Green, appearing completely baffled at this point.

"True, but the documents with my guilty verdict mysteriously disappeared when he reappeared," Mrs. White said. 

Mr. Green frowned. "That doesn't make any sense at all," he finally said.

"I did say he wasn't a very good illusionist," said Mrs. White with a little shrug. "Anyway, the point is, without those papers, the prison warden was left without a leg to stand on."

"You didn't cut that off, too, did you?" said Mr. Green, a faint accusatory note in this voice.

"It's an expression, Mr. Green," she replied calmly. "Although in truth, I hated that warden SO much," she added, gesturing at her head, "flames, flames, on the side of my face, breathless, heaving breaths--" 

"I get the picture," Mr. Green said, cutting across her recitation. 

"Well, all right, then," said Mrs. White, pulling a small metal nail file from her handbag and taking a seat. Mr. Green, Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard all crossed their legs reflexively at the sight of the pointy metal instrument, but Mrs. White, intent on her protruding left middle finger, seemed not to notice.

"And now," said Mr. Edwards, "we come to an especially charming guest." Mr. Green noticed that his hair seemed to have become a little ruffled and there was a smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth that surely hadn't been there five minutes ago.

"It's Miss Scarlet, isn't it?" he said sourly. No point in getting his hopes up for his favorite coworkers, friends, relatives or mentors at this point. The only one left was the infamous mistress of Washington, so it had to be her.

"Why, yes!" exclaimed Mr. Edwards in apparent surprise. "So I suppose we shall skip her introduction and bring the charming and beautiful lady right out!" 

A moment later Miss Scarlet sashayed – there really was no other word for it – into Mr. Green's line of sight. Her red hair was teased into a large pouf behind a white headband; Mr. Green noted absently that Miss Scarlet could have hidden, maybe not the candlestick, but at least the revolver or knife in there, and her dress was nearly as form-fitting as the last one he'd seen her in – but significantly shorter. If he squinted, she could almost be a red-headed Doris Day from her latest movie, _Send Me No Flowers_. 

"Hey," purred Miss Scarlet in a throaty voice. 

"Don't tell me," said Mr. Green, holding his hand up to forestall anything else she might have been about to say. "You set up the judge with," here he paused, curling his fingers into air quotes, "'the company of a young lady for a short while' and he was so pleased he decided to ignore your history of murder and let you out." 

"Don't be such a square," said Miss Scarlet coolly. "Yes, I was tight with the guards – they were hunky but kind of losers. Still, they put in the good word for me with the judge, said I showed fab behavior, so I got to cut out early, no sweat. Which was good, because jail was really a drag." 

Mr. Green stared. "So," he said slowly, "you were a kiss-up with some dipsticks and they let you bug out of the clink early?"

"Glad you dig it," she replied, taking her seat without being told, and crossing her shapely legs. 

"Now, Mr. Green," said Mr. Edwards, although his eyes were still firmly glued to Miss Scarlet. "I do hope you've enjoyed reuniting with all your old dinner companions--"

"It's been sheer delight," muttered Mr. Green under his breath. 

"—but we have still one more surprise for you," Mr. Edwards finished, giving no indication that he'd heard Mr. Green.

Mr. Green sighed. "I don't suppose it's my wife?"

Mr. Edwards gave his trademark chuckle. Mr. Green fought the urge to find Mrs. White's rope and throttle Mr. Edwards with it. "No, no, it's one more person from that memorable evening!" he said.

"But … but how can that be?" said Mr. Green. His eyes scanned the now-filled chairs. "Everyone is here already. One plus one—" he pointed at Mrs. Peacock and Col. Mustard, "—plus two plus one," he finished, pointing at Plum, White and Scarlet in turn. 

"Ah-ah!" Mr. Edwards said, wagging his finger cheekily in Mr. Green's direction. "I think you'll find it is, shall we say, one plus two plus one plus one … plus one!" He gestured broadly behind him with his free hand, and onto the stage walked …

Wadsworth.

Mr. Green shot to his feet. "I killed you!" he exclaimed. 

Wadsworth smiled as he stood before Mr. Green, looking oddly casual in a regular suit, rather than the butler's uniform he'd previously worn. "But did you check? Even FBI agents should be able to tell the difference between alive and dead," he admonished. "Really, it was simply a matter of acting until you'd stepped outside to talk to the other agents."

"But…" Mr. Green spluttered. "Someone would have told me if you weren't really dead!" He looked around at the others. "Did you know this?"

"Certainly," said Professor Plum. "Wadsworth came to visit us in prison on many occasions." The others nodded their agreement.

"But … _why_?"

"I still had a job to finish, of course," said Wadsworth. 

Mr. Green squinted in confusion. "You worked as a butler in jail?"

Wadsworth rolled his eyes. "No, Mr. Green. Being a butler was just a red herring. I was after information, and the others kindly agreed to give it to me."

"In other words, you were still blackmailing them."

"There was no money involved. Merely an exchange of services."

Mr. Green glanced at Miss Scarlet in suspicion. "What sort of services?"

"Oh, just cool it," she said, dismissively. "Everything's copacetic." 

"Frankly, we'd like to thank you, Mr. Green," said Mrs. White, finally – and to the men's great relief – tucking her nail file back into her bag. "That's why we're all here."

" _Thank_ me?" repeated Mr. Green, now looking more confused than ever – which was saying a lot. "What for?"

"By coming to your little jam," began Miss Scarlet, "we finally got the juice."

Mr. Green frowned. "Information?"

Wadsworth nodded. "Yes, exactly."

"But you already were running a side business in information with your escort service!" said Mr. Green, to Miss Scarlet, his brows furrowing even further.

"But this time," interjected Col. Mustard, "we all pooled our information."

"Mrs. White found her husband's killer secret papers that he'd written about his work," said Miss Scarlet. 

"Why would he threaten to kill his papers?" asked Professor Plum, frowning a little.

"I think she meant his papers were amazing," corrected Wadsworth. 

"Yes," agreed Mrs. White. "I found a hidden compartment in our mantelpiece, with his papers hidden inside."

"And which husband was this?" asked Mr. Green.

"Mine, or other women's?"

Mr. Green fought the urge to throttle her. "How many husbands do you know who have hidden papers?"

"Oh, just the one, the nuclear physicist."

Mr. Green looked from Mrs. White to Miss Scarlet. "And?"

"So we rang Mrs. Peacock on the ring-a-ling, to see if she could rat out the skinny on her husband's secret defense contracts." Miss Scarlet flashed a knowing smile at Mrs. Peacock. 

Mrs. Peacock shrugged. "You learn to listen well when you're a senator's wife. All those political dinner parties, and usually plenty of wine and liquor. People talk a lot more after a drink or two."

Mr. Green rolled his eyes. "I can only just imagine. So," he continued, looking at each of them, "Mrs. Peacock knew her husband's business with the defense contracts, Col. Mustard had his fusion bomb information and Mrs. White contributed her husband's nuclear physics work. But what about the two of you?" he finished, looking at Miss Scarlet and Professor Plum.

"Oh, I don't know anything about how it all works, really," said Professor Plum genially. "But I overhear a lot of proliferation discussion now that I'm back at the UN." He pulled out a familiar looking notebook from his shirt pocket. "Wrote down whatever I heard and sent it along," he added, peering at his notes. "This bit is about Libyans wanting plutonium to build a bomb." Professor Plum shook his now-shaggy white mane. "Like anyone would ever be crazy enough to let them join the nuclear race. Somebody should just give them a bomb casing of used pinball machine parts, and claim it was plutonium."

"That's … an interesting idea," said Mr. Green, trying to make sense of this non-sequiter. He turned to Miss Scarlet. "And you?"

"You know me, Mr. Green," said Miss Scarlet with her trademark self-assured smile. "My workplace is the scene, and I hear all the latest dirt from my girls. You'd be surprised how much a man will blab to a fox, especially one who is sweet-talking him."

"I'm sure it doesn't hurt that the girl is probably naked, either," Mr. Green muttered.

Miss Scarlet tapped her nose with one fire-red fingernail. "For real," she agreed.

"Anyway, to make a long story short--" began Wadsworth.

"Too late," grumbled Mr. Green.

"—when Mr. Edwards approached us all and asked if we'd come celebrate your life, such as it is, we all agreed that it would be the perfect opportunity to share information with each other. We now have the means to talk to some very high red powers."

Mr. Green looked at all the smug smiles on his "guests'" faces. "I thought Communism was just a red herring."

"Sorry," said Mrs. Peacock, not looking sorry at all. "But I'm sure if we didn't have that to talk about, we'd all just be sitting around in an embarrassed silence."

"Heaven forbid," muttered Mr. Green.

"No, I'm afraid," interjected Wadsworth, "it was this television appearance which was the red herring, Mr. Green."

"Did _you_ know about this?" Mr. Green asked Mr. Edwards, who had been unusually silent all this time.

"Well, no, not as such," said Mr. Edwards, who showed not the slightest hint of discomfort. "But we have guests catching up on each other's lives all the time! What harm could it be?"

"I'd really rather not find out the hard way," Mr. Green retorted. "Would you?"

"Now, now, Mr. Green," said Mr. Edwards soothingly. "It so happens there is one more surprise guest backstage, who might make it all worthwhile to you."

Mr. Green threw up his hands. "Well, you might as well bring them out."

"With pleasure." Mr. Edwards beamed. "Mr. Green, this person needs no special introduction. His actions speak for themselves!" He stepped back and gestured to the side. 

Onto the stage walked J. Edgar Hoover.

"Mr. Green, you've done it again!" he said, voice booming above the sounds of the audience's gasps. 

Col. Mustard stood up. "What is _he_ doing here?" he asked.

Mr. Green smiled for the first time all evening. "He's here to re-arrest everyone. I really have to thank you for confessing to everything on national television!"

"All right, boys, take 'em away," called Mr. Hoover, and the stage was suddenly flooded with armed FBI agents.

Wadsworth looked Mr. Green in the eye as his hands were wrestled behind his back and summarily handcuffed. "How did you know?"

"Well, to make a long story short—" Mr. Green paused and looked around, but nobody spoke. "See, this is what happens when it's _not_ too late," he continued, with a pointed look at Wadsworth. "Anyway, as I was saying," he went on, then he paused again. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked Wadsworth in a low voice.

"Yes."

Mr. Green leaned in to murmur in Wadsworth's ear. "So can I."

Wadsworth scowled.

"Take 'em away, gentlemen," said Mr. Hoover to the amassed agents, and they all hustled the prisoners off the stage and out the door.

"Well, Mr. Green," beamed Mr. Edwards. "I think this is the most excitement we've had here at our studio in quite some time. It's definitely been quite a life you've had so far!"

"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Edwards," replied Mr. Green, straightening his tie. 

"I know your job is terribly secret," said Mr. Edwards, "but perhaps you could share with the audience how you were inspired to work for the FBI in the first place?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Green. "I was in my apartment, reading the evening paper over dinner. I was slicing up my steak when I spotted a recruitment advertisement from the FBI. It sounded more interesting than the office job I'd held at that point, so I applied, and the rest is history."

Mr. Edwards turned toward the cameras. "There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. It all happened with Mr. Green, in the kitchen with a knife."

Mr. Green smiled. "Exactly."

**Author's Note:**

> Lines quoted from _Clue_ and _Back to the Future_ (did you spot them?) belong to their creators, not to me. 
> 
> This is YOUR fandom life. And the author's. :-D The author lives on feedback. Please leave some? Concrit is fine, too.


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